The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  An interruption, however, was offered by the entrance of the Duke of Buckingham and Lord Feversham, followed by Bellegarde.

  Dorinda turned very pale on beholding the latter.

  “Where is Talbot Harland?” demanded Charles.

  “We have been obliged to leave him behind,” replied Buckingham.

  “What has happened? — he is not hurt?” cried Dorinda, unable to repress her emotion.

  “You are the cause of the rencounter, Miss Neville,” said Buckingham, regardless of her feelings.

  “Methought I forbade you to leave the ball-room, count?” said Charles to Bellegarde. “Is it thus that you obey me?”

  “Let me intercede for him with your majesty?” whispered Louise.

  “I crave your majesty’s forgiveness,” replied the count; “but the doors being open, and the night magnificent, I could not resist strolling forth into the garden. I never supposed I should be missed.”

  “Did you stroll forth alone?” demanded the king.

  “No, sire; Talbot Harland went with me.”

  “By your invitation?”

  “By my invitation, sire. I will not attempt to deny it.”

  “We were too late to prevent the conflict,” interposed the Duke of Buckingham. “They were at it when we went out into the garden. We hurried to the spot; but before we could get up, the affair was ended. Talbot had dropped his sword.”

  “Then he is hurt?” cried Dorinda.

  “Not much,” replied Lord Feversham. “A slight wound — a mere scratch.”

  “Out of consideration for Miss Neville, I touched him as slightly as possible,” said the count.

  A half-stifled cry was heard. Dorinda had fainted.

  Lord Feversham caught her before she fell, and bore her out of the room, assisted by Lady Muskerry, who was lavish in her attentions to her niece.

  “Oddsfish! the secret’s out!” exclaimed Charles. “Talbot is a lucky fellow. You have done him a great service, count.”

  “I hope he will duly appreciate it,” replied Bellegarde.

  Shortly afterwards, Lady Muskerry reappeared, with the satisfactory intelligence that her niece was better, but had withdrawn to her own room.

  “I am amazed at what has happened,” said her ladyship. “I had no idea she took so much interest in young Harland.”

  She then went to the Duchess of Cleveland, who had resumed her seat at the basset-table, and was still losing heavily to Lord Buckhurst.

  “Your grace shall have the two thousand pistoles,” she said, in a low tone.

  “I want four thousand now,” replied the duchess.

  Lady Muskerry was rather disconcerted; but she replied, “Anything to oblige your grace.”

  “You are the best and kindest creature on earth,” cried the duchess; “and will lay me under eternal obligations. I shall be at home at six o’clock to-morrow. You know my little farm on Rusthall Common?”

  “Perfectly. I will call on you about five o’clock, and bring the money with me.”

  This colloquy, though conducted in a low tone, did not escape the quick ears of the Count de Bellegarde.

  Just then, an usher with a white wand presented himself, and announced to his majesty that supper was served.

  CHAPTER IV

  INTRODUCES CAPTAIN CLOTWORTHY AND MONSIEUR CLAUDE DUVAL, WITH THEIR COMRADES, MONTALT, MANDEVILLE, AND FLODOARD

  In a deep hollow at the northern extremity of Rusthall Common is a large group of rocks, several of which rise to a great height, and are so fantastic in shape, that it would seem that Dame Nature must have fashioned them in her wildest and most capricious mood.

  The strangest of these huge stony masses, from its extraordinary form and position, placed as it is upon the apex of another rock, has been likened to an enormous toad, and certainly a resemblance to the reptile in question may be discovered. Indeed, it requires no great stretch of imagination to convert the whole group into a collection of antediluvian monsters.

  In this rocky glen, which at that time had some of the savage features that Salvator Rosa loved to paint, on the afternoon of the day succeeding the court ball at Somerhill, four well-mounted horsemen were concealed. Two of them, who were evidently the leaders of the little troop, wore loups, or black velvet masks, barbed with silk, which completely disguised their features.

  Both were equally well dressed, and wore scarlet riding dresses embroidered with gold, boots fringed with lace, flowing perukes, and large low-crowned hats, surrounded with white feathers.

  But they differed materially in personal appearance. One of them was square-built and athletic, and looked double the age of his companion, who was slender and gracefully proportioned. He was reclining indolently in his saddle, and beguiled the tedium of waiting by some snatches of a French romance, which he sang with infinite taste, to the accompaniment of a mandolin, with which one of the troop was provided. His accent and manner left no doubt that the language in which he sang was his own. No Englishman could have so pronounced the words, or given them such charming effect.

  On the high ground above the rugged sides of the hollow, and half-hidden by the furze and briars which grew there thickly, was a fifth horseman, who evidently acted as sentinel to those below.

  What was the object of this ambuscade? The place chosen by the troop was favorable to concealment; but they could scarcely issue forth without discovery, for it was still early in the evening, and many persons were moving about the common, — a portion of which, about half a mile off, resembled an encampment, being covered by tents, occupied by the nobles and gentlemen belonging to the court, who could not find accommodation in the thinly-scattered houses near the Wells. Here the Duke of York had pitched his tent. Here, also, the great Duke of Buckingham and Lord Arlington slept under canvas. Close to the encampment was a bowling-green, much resorted to by the Merry Monarch and his courtiers, and a large structure that served as an assembly-room. The Duchess of Cleveland had hired a farm-house in a more secluded part of the common, on the road to Langton. The king himself had a house, with a bowling-green attached to it, on Mount Sion.

  Such being the state of Rusthall Common, which was then the gayest and most frequented spot near the Wells, it seemed extremely unlikely that the horsemen could be robbers. Most probably they were court gallants, engaged on a frolic. We shall see.

  The gay-looking young Frenchman, who it appears, bore the name of Claude Duval, had just finished his song, and received the plaudits of his stalwart companion.

  “Bravo, Monsieur Claude!” cried this personage. “You have a charming voice, and sing as well as the Count de Bellegarde. I would cry encore to your madrigal, if I did not think we might be interrupted.”

  “You flatter me immensely,” replied Claude Duval, who spoke with a slight — very slight — French accent. “I cannot pretend to sing like my master, the Count de Bellegarde; but I can personate him pretty fairly, with the help of his wardrobe, with which I own I have made free on the present occasion. I have often passed for him, even in the best society; and sometimes, I blush to say, have got him into scrapes. I hope I shall not do so now; but when he told me last night that the fair Dorinda Neville had refused to dance with him at Miladi Muskerry’s ball, I swore by my patron, Saint Barnaby, that the haughty beauty should dance with me. How to manage this was the question. My master had informed me that Miladi Muskerry meant to call on the Duchess of Cleveland, at her farm on Rusthall Common, at a certain hour. I next ascertained that miladi would take her lovely niece with her in the carriage. That was enough. I had my plan in an instant. Nothing more easy than to stop the carriage in a convenient spot. But I could not do this alone; so I applied to my staunch friend, Captain Clotworthy, who luckily chanced to be at Tunbridge Wells, with his honorable associates, Montalt” — bowing to the galliard with the mandolin, who gracefully acknowledged the salute,—” Mandeville” — bowing to the other,— “and Flodoard” — glancing at the horseman stationed on the heights above. “They re
adily promised me assistance, and here we are.”

  “We are delighted to aid Monsieur Claude Duval,” observed Montalt. “Besides, the affair is one exactly after our own hearts. There is just hazard enough about it to render it agreeable.’’

  “And four thousand pistoles to be gained,” added Mandeville.

  “My master informed me that Miladi Muskerry will have that sum with her,” said Claude Duval. “She has promised to lend it to the Duchess of Cleveland, who was unlucky at basset last night, and has lost the amount to Lord Buckhurst. It is a debt of honor, gentlemen, and must be discharged without delay.”

  “Then her grace must apply to Old Rowley,” observed Clotworthy.

  “Old Rowley’s cassette is well-nigh empty; so my master says,” observed Claude Duval.

  A laugh from all around followed this remark.

  “Apropos of the count — where is he at this moment?” asked Clotworthy.

  “He ought to be in attendance on her highness the Duchess of Orleans,” replied Claude. “But Heaven knows where he is. Hark! there is the signal!”

  A whistle was heard, and the next instant Flodoard shouted from above, “Get ready, gentlemen; the carriage is in sight.”

  “Where is it?” demanded Clotworthy.

  “Making its way across the common — on this side the tents,” rejoined Flodoard.

  “A lions, messieurs!” cried Claude Duval, gaily. “Take care not to frighten the ladies.”

  The troop then quitted the rocky glen by an outlet at the rear; and after tracking a narrow road, between high banks, turned off on the left, and galloped along the skirts of a thicket that bordered the common on the west.

  CHAPTER V

  LADY MUSKERRY

  Never, sure, save at the Lord Mayor’s show in the olden time, was seen grander or more richly-gilt chariot than that containing Lady Muskerry and her lovely niece. The windows were so large, and the gorgeous vehicle was hung so low, that the ladies inside it could be distinctly seen. The horses were magnificently harnessed; a fat coachman occupied the box; and two tall footmen, powdered and bedizened with lace, hung on behind.

  Lady Muskerry was preposterously dressed in crimson satin, which, however, paled before the pink on her cheeks, and wore her hair, or rather peruke, en négligé. The collar, which fell over her shoulders, was of richest point, and her short sleeves were likewise adorned with deep falls of lace. Of course, she carried a fan — no lady of that day was ever without one — and her fan was prodigiously fine — the handle being of silver, with a small looking-glass set in it. On her lap rested a small spaniel — a present from the king — whose long, silken ears, and large, soft eyes, proclaimed his perfect breeding. At her feet was deposited a heavy bag, the contents of which will be readily surmised.

  Dorinda was just as becomingly dressed as her aunt was the reverse. Everything she wore seemed to suit her charming figure; and nothing could suit her better than the little coquettish hat, with a red plume in it, that crowned her luxuriant blonde tresses.

  The lovely girl was in high spirits, and her blooming features bore no traces of fatigue. The afternoon was exquisite, and she had immensely enjoyed the ride from Somerhill to the Wells. The charming views had enraptured her.

  At the Wells they had alighted, and walked along the parade, where a tolerably large company was assembled — some drinking the waters, but the majority promenading to and fro, and listening to the strains proceeding from an orchestra.

  Very different, it is needless to say, was the appearance of the place from that which it now presents. A few sheds, temporarily converted into shops, ran along one side of the promenade. On the other side, benches were placed under the trees. Still the scene was extremely gay and amusing — especially at morn, when the king, with all the gallants and ladies of the court, resorted thither to drink the waters.

  Scarcely had Lady Muskerry and her niece set foot on the parade, than they were joined by Talbot Harland. The young man had his right arm in a sling, but did not otherwise seem much the worse for his rencontre overnight with Bellegarde. Dorinda blushed deeply on beholding him, and her confusion was heightened by Lady Muskerry, who chided him for the anxiety he had caused her niece. Talbot expressed his concern, but his looks showed that he was far from sorry.

  “My defeat has made me the subject of a hundred jests,” he said; “and the Duke of Buckingham and Lord Feversham tell me I ought never to have provoked so expert a swordsman as the count; but I rejoice that I did so, since it has procured me—”

  He was proceeding in this strain, when Dorinda interrupted him by saying, “But the count might have killed you.”

  “In that case, tears from your bright eyes would have been shed for me,” said the young man.

  “I am afraid some one’s heart would have been broken,” remarked Lady Muskerry. “Well, I hope this absurd affair won’t proceed further.”

  “Yes; if I have any influence with Mr. Talbot Harland, he won’t provoke the count again,” said Dorinda, with a tender glance at her lover.

  “You are of the same opinion, I find, as the Duke of Buckingham, and think that I should infallibly be worsted,” laughed Talbot. “Rest easy. I met the count not two hours ago, and he expressed so many regrets at having hurt me, and behaved altogether so handsomely, that — In a word, we became friends.”

  “The count is a most charming man, and dances inimitably,” cried Lady Muskerry.

  “Perhaps so,” said Dorinda; “but he shall never dance with me — on that I am fully resolved.”

  “I should think he will not presume to ask you again,” remarked Talbot. “That, indeed, might furnish a new ground of quarrel.”

  “You silly child, you will cause more mischief!” cried Lady Muskerry, tapping her niece playfully with her fan. “But we must not stay here longer. “time to go to the Duchess of Cleveland.”

  “Her grace, I hear, lost a large sum last night to Lord Buckhurst, and made the king very angry,” remarked Talbot, with a laugh. “Buckhurst, however, thinks he will never be paid.”

  “Yes, he will; I will promise him that,” said Lady Muskerry. “I mean to lend her grace the money.”

  “Then your ladyship will be the loser, and not Buckhurst.”

  Talbot attended them to the carriage; and as he offered his uninjured arm to Dorinda, he whispered, “I shall ride up to Rusthall Common presently, and hope to catch a glimpse of you as you come back.”

  CHAPTER VI

  HOW CLAUDE DUVAL DANCED A GAILLARDE WITH DORINDA NEVILLE

  The heath adjoining Tunbridge Wells, which is now traversed by numerous roads, was then very wild and picturesque — clothed with gorse, and with only two or three shepherds’ huts upon it.

  Lady Muskerry’s stout horses managed to drag the heavy carriage up the toilsome ascent, along a road that was little better than a sheep-track; and at last landed it safely on the brow of the hill, near Bishop’s Down, at the back of which, among the woods, stood a large mansion, which the king had occupied during his former visits to the Wells, but he had now transferred himself to Mount Sion. Thence the road to Rusthall Common — which, in fact, was merely a continuation of the heath — was tolerably level, and offered no difficulties.

  Dorinda was lost in admiration of the magnificent prospect that was here spread out before her; and was still contemplating it, when the wide common opened upon them. There was nothing dreary about the waste. On the contrary, it presented as charming a picture as can well be conceived.

  About half a mile off was the encampment, and the flags of the numerous tents were fluttering in the soft evening breeze. On the left was Rusthall Church — an ancient structure, with a few cottages near it. On the green, in front of the church, rustic sports were going on; and the shouts and uproarious laughter of the crowd collected on the spot could be distinctly heard. Mingled with these shouts arose a confused hum of voices from the tents, and numbers of persons could be seen moving about in their vicinity.

  Lady Mu
skerry promised her niece that she would pass through the encampment on her way back. In the meantime, the coachman turned off on the right; and the road being execrable, he kept as much as he could on the turf.

  Presently, the scene became solitary enough. The clumps of gorse grew thicker and more frequent. The tinkling of a sheep-bell was the only sound heard. The encampment was lost to view, and the square tower of Rusthall Church alone marked the site of the village.

  However, the prospect improved as they went on; and shortly after they entered the wood, the prettiest sylvan scene imaginable greeted them.

  It was a patch of greensward, smooth as velvet, and level as a bowling-green; in the midst grew a noble oak-tree, with wide arms flung abroad. An air of complete seclusion was given to this lovely spot by the thickets that surrounded it.

  The picture was completed by a little troop of horsemen gathered beneath the patriarchal oak. The disposition of these figures was charming, and might have been studied for effect, so well did they harmonize with the scene.

  The attention of the ladies was naturally attracted to the party, while sounds of music caught their ears. One of the horsemen had dismounted, and was playing a mandolin, while leaning against the gnarled trunk of the tree. Both ladies were enchanted with the picture thus unexpectedly presented to their view. Nor were they in the least surprised or alarmed, when two of the horsemen, whose attire seemed superior to that of the others, detached themselves from the group, and rode towards the carriage.

  Both these personages were masked. Still, that circumstance did not cause uneasiness.

  At a sign from the foremost horseman, who was the most stalwart of the two, the coachman stopped; and the next moment, this individual, presenting himself at the open window of the carriage, bowed most respectfully to its occupants, but did not remove his vizard.